Mind Caviar Fiction

Reyna Jackson's  sensual poetry and short stories can be found in anthologies, e-zines and  magazines. Her most recent publications include The Romantic Bower and Amoret: A Journal of Erotic and Sensual Flash Fiction. When she is not indulging in thoughts of the art of seduction, she and her boyfriend 
explore the rugged beauty of the American Southwest.

Correspond  with Reyna Jackson

Cooking With Jazz
by Reyna Jackson

Wearing the rhythm in her hips like her favorite faded jeans, she stirred to the beat of the music. The heat from the stove and the promise of another humid afternoon pressed against her Mardi Gras T-shirt and caressed her nipples to stiff peaks. Her arms stretched and moved freely with each reach into the kitchen cabinet; her dance was never restricted. 

He felt like a voyeur, watching her pleasure herself as she danced to the pulse of the music floating heavily in the air. He watched as she grinded her hips along with her imaginary dance partner; he stifled a moan, aching to be that partner. He felt almost crazy to feel jealous of the humid air that caressed her sensual moves and teasing gyrations...wanting to be that air. 

She loved making Sunday brunch because the radio played four straight hours of smooth jazz. Warren Hill's seductive saxophone, the rich flavor of Luther Vandross and the beat in Fourplay easily roused her early on Sundays. With the air perfumed with aromatic coffee and rich with the scent of baking pastries, cooking with jazz had become an easy ritual. 

She danced no intricate dance steps, just sways and swings as she used her whole body to squeeze juicy oranges. In one motion, she wiped the pulp from her hands with a pale yellow towel and spun in time to the cupboard for the pitcher. Her green eyes sparkled and her smile presented her enjoyment in her weekly rite. 

Bacon and eggs sizzled and popped, drawing her attention, but not causing a pause in her dance. Her hips rotated along with the whisk in her hand. Satisfied, her fingers slipped through the damp tresses of her sunrise-red hair as she improvised with herself. She felt sensual, mellow as if she had just awakened, having lain between sheets with the sun shining through the curtains onto her bed. 

As the toast popped up from the toaster and the coffee dripped its last essence from the brew basket, she prepared the tray of breakfast treats. She wiped a stray trace of strawberry jam from the rim of the plate with her finger, closed her eyes as she savored the sweetness of it's flavor. As she arranged the leisurely feast, the radio was the only appliance she left on as she lifted the brunch tray and swung her hips in time with the music rising up the stairs. 

Copyright © 2000 Reyna Jackson. All rights reserved.

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